


It's Always the Quiet Ones

by Dustbunnygirl



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 22:54:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5888404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dustbunnygirl/pseuds/Dustbunnygirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Title: It’s Always the Quiet Ones<br/>Summary:  But redheads … those he blamed on Mab.<br/>Rating: PG-13, lets say?<br/>Disclaimer: I don’t own Joss Whedon’s Slayer-verse, no matter how many seasons of Buffy I have on my shelves. Quite the opposite, really: we all know Whedon owns my soul – or at least a good portion of it.  The Watcher and Slayer (briefly mentioned) in this story are OCs from a now-defunct multi-fandom RP and the fic was a request from friend.<br/>Warnings: No spoilers, no nudity, no dirty language even (well, maybe one slightly less than pure word)! <br/>Word Count: 1,188<br/>Author's Notes: For Oriencor, from the FanFic Prompt Meme - "#24. Disheveled Character."<br/>Betas: mithfeniel</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Always the Quiet Ones

There was just something about redheads.

Just what something constituted, in this case, was easily defined. Thomas Logan, semi-retired Watcher with the oldest living semi-retired Slayer currently on record in his employ (Madga didn’t admit to anything past 30, but that in and of itself was a feat) and one of the most extensive collections of occult and supernatural paraphernalia on the West Coast hidden away in his study, was caught between a Hewlett Packard Photocopier and a squirming, half-unbuttoned redhead. Pinned, to use the proper and exact terminology. Stuck would be an appropriate word as well, except it implied a certain degree of discomfort with the situation that didn’t really exist. Thom so rarely found himself pressed up against a writhing, moaning woman intent on snogging him past reason – usually, the writhing, moaning creatures that pinned him against solid objects were more interested in ripping out his throat or nibbling on his cerebral cortex - that he couldn’t find room for objection. Even if they were in the staff supply cupboard.

It wasn’t a preference, really. In fact, if Thom was honest with himself – and himself was one of the few people he usually was strictly honest with – he was typically drawn to women with dark hair. He blamed Audrey Hepburn and Sophia Loren when he had occasion to contemplate it, which typically came three glasses into a bottle of scotch after an inevitably doomed relationship had shattered with all the flare of a champagne glass flung at a fireplace. 

(He blamed a week in the care of a pack of cheerleaders-turned-vampires with a fondness for using exfoliating facial scrubs as torture for his deathly aversion to blondes. And to the health and beauty section of every store and chemist on two continents as well.)

But redheads … those he blamed on Mab. The gypsy’s words had been meant as prophecy, he knew that. Had been meant, experience had told him, as a potential future laid before him, should he continue on the path that was set at his feet (Which was more or less a given; he hadn’t ventured a hair’s off that path since he was placed upon it by Destiny two seconds past his birth). And yet, somehow, the possibility of a redhead snagging his heart and bearing him a fine and healthy child had turned into something else. He hated to call it a curse, since curses generally weren’t this enjoyable, but if the shoe fit…

The woman – Suzy, for some reason, stuck in his brain, perhaps glimpsed on the nametag pinned to her lapel in the moments before she pounced – worked with the library’s special collections. They’d been introduced when she was hired, a brief “Miss Edgewater, this is Mr. Logan, he mans the reference desk” as the head librarian had escorted her through the building. Thom remembered her from that quick introduction as quiet; reserved. He hadn’t noticed her hair color, not that first day or the subsequent passing-in-the-hall moments since. If he had, he would’ve prepared himself. Or possibly relocated to Bora Bora. He would’ve sent the Watcher’s Council and Madga both a postcard, of course. “Hiding amongst the natives. Will return when science eradicates the redheaded gene. Have fun with the vampires and the next apocalypse. Love, Thom.“

Not that he was complaining, mind you, while in the moment. Later, when the inevitable chaos ensued or Hell (figuratively or literally) broke loose, then he would complain. While 120 pounds of groping hands and probing tongue laid claim to his lips, his tonsils and – oh! Hands in new places – his ass, all he could think about was holding on for dear life and remembering to breathe.

The need for the latter arrived as maybe-Suzy loosened his tie with one good yank and started slipping shirt buttons urgently through their appointed holes. It was time, in his opinion, to try to assert a little bit of control over the situation. He pulled his lips back with great effort and reluctance, avoiding the lipstick-smudged, kiss-swollen ones that tried to follow.

“Suzy – “

“Sally,” the redhead corrected quickly, breathlessly, and without any of the usual female irritation at being labeled with someone else’s name. She was too busy trying to climb, by all appearances, into his skin and get purchase on his lips again.

“Miss Edgewater,” Thom said instead, trying to stop the meandering hands that had his shirt halfway open. Every time he grabbed one hand, he swore two more rose up in its place. It was, he decided, a bit like snogging an octopus. “I’m not sure what provoked this…passionate clutch…but I do know that it’s highly inappropriate in the work place.”

The words, offered with as much stern purpose as he could muster with all the blood from his brain currently redirected to points south of his belly button and north of his kneecaps, garnered exactly the opposite effect he was expecting. Sally the Snogging Octopus writhed more enthusiastically, further draining his brain’s blood supply, and purred as she nuzzled the skin beneath his open collar. 

“Oh, more. More!”

“More _what_? I’ve hardly touched you!”

“ **Words** ,” she purred, punctuated by an obscene roll of her hips that should have been, and most probably was, illegal in several cultures. “I heard you debating the Dewey Decimal System with Roger from periodicals and I just couldn’t help myself anymore! The way you rolled your Rs made me weak in the knees.”

Thom blanched, which he attributed to there being absolutely no blood left above his neck or below his pelvis. “But I-I wouldn’t even know what to say!”

“Anything. Everything. Count to a hundred, I don’t care! Just…keep…”

From somewhere in the general direction Thom remembered the door being, someone coughed - loudly, purposefully, and with great exaggeration. Sally’s wriggling and squirming came to an abrupt end and her hands slipped away from the buttons and skin they were tormenting. The above-mentioned Roger stood in the doorway, hands in his pockets and a gleeful expression stretched over his face. The glint in his eyes told Thom that, if he possessed any less shame, Roger would applaud and ask for an encore. 

“I’ll get that volume to you as soon as I find it, Mr. Logan,” Sally said in the soft, authoritative tone that came standard with a library sciences degree. She smoothed a hand over her hair, another over her blouse – Thom didn’t remember undoing those two buttons – and turned for the door. Quick, staccato footsteps carried her out into the hall, past a smiling Roger. 

“Th-thank you, Miss Edgewater!” Thom called out as the footsteps faded. He pushed off the copier with as much dignity as he had left and began rebuttoning his shirt. Roger didn’t say anything to him as he adjusted his tie or ran a wobbly hand through his hair. Thom gave him a quick nod as he pulled his jacket closed around him, hoping to hide what embarrassment hadn’t been able to diminish.

“Work to do,” Thom said, quickly, before taking off down the hall in the opposite direction of Sally’s escape, muttering, “Bloody redheads,” all the way to his desk.


End file.
